


Weird Isn't The Word

by IAmTheMaestro



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Kid Fic, Kid!Lock, Kidlock, Sherlock AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-10-20 06:43:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10657074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmTheMaestro/pseuds/IAmTheMaestro
Summary: John isn't sure if he wants to be friends with his neighbor, Sherlock Holmes. There are quite a few reasons- really, Harry says he's "weird." Admittedly, he is interesting, but "weird" isn't the word. He's just different.But that's okay, because John's different, too, and he concludes that befriending Sherlock might just be worth a try.





	1. Different

**Author's Note:**

> Credit to bbcsherlockheadcanon.tumblr.com for inspiring that first headcanon type thing in chapter 1.

John isn’t sure if he wants to be friends with Sherlock Holmes.  
Sherlock, Harry has told him, is "weird." He’s “a weird kid who does weird stuff.” John doesn’t know if he agrees or not. He’s watched Sherlock before, as they are neighbors, and admittedly, he is a bit different from the people John knows. In fact, John has watched him quite a lot, and he’s not sure if Sherlock knows about it.  
Sherlock fell out of a tree once. It wasn’t that long ago. What he was doing up there in the first place, John still didn’t know, but when Sherlock came back from what John assumed was the hospital, he couldn’t use his right hand. Instead, he had taught himself how to use his left hand. John secretly thought that this was amazing, because he tried it later with his right hand, which was his non-dominant hand, and was disappointed with the results.  
Also, Sherlock plays the violin. John never told anyone this, but he’s sort of jealous. Sherlock is good at the violin. John wants to play an instrument, but can’t figure out the piano on his own and hasn’t asked Harry about it. Harry, he assumes, knows a lot, so she must know about the piano.  
He dresses rather strangely, too. Really just different than John and most of the other kids he knows. The only time John can ever remember dressing like Sherlock does all the time was when he went to a wedding. The wedding was okay, but his shoes were uncomfortable, and especially his tie.  
John supposes that another “weird thing” about Sherlock is that he reads a lot. Not what John thinks are normal books, exactly, either. He reads long books. Books that aren’t the slightest bit interesting to John, really, because they don’t really have pictures and have too many big words. Apparently, this is how Sherlock ended up teaching himself so many of these words.  
Perhaps one of the strangest things about him is how he talks, John realizes, because like his books, he uses too many complicated words, his favourite of which is probably “deduction.” He hasn’t asked Harry, so John doesn’t know what a “deduction” is. The few times he had tried to talk to Sherlock, he had been corrected for things he still doesn’t really get. “Me and him” seems just the same as “him and I” to John, but according to Sherlock, one of them is wrong and the other is not. John can never remember which goes where.  
So yes, John says, maybe Sherlock is a bit weird, but he doesn’t think “weird” is the right word. “Weird,” at least the way Harry says it, sounds like a bad thing. Sherlock is more of a “different” person. He’s not bad. Just different.  
But to befriend him seems a different story to John. It might be fun. Sherlock is interesting, if not different. He has a dog. John likes dogs, but mummy would never let him have one- not yet, at least. “Someday,” she always says. John doesn’t know when “someday” is, but he’s already tired of waiting. John’s mother and Sherlock’s mother have talked before, and his family seems rather nice. Yes, it might be fun. But John doesn't know if he could deal with Sherlock all the time- his corrections and vocabulary and experiments seem a bit overwhelming to John, who just wants a normal friend. Sherlock is practically the opposite of normal.  
John still isn't sure, but as he glances outside to see Redbeard, the Holmes’ spaniel, bounding around outside, he decides: he doesn't really have any other friends. He has Harry, but she’s not a friend; she's a sister who can be a friend at the same time, and that's not the same to him. So, he concludes, befriending Sherlock just might be worth a try.


	2. Maybe Not As Different As John Thought

Sherlock is sitting in a tree. He’s quite a few feet off the ground. He finds reason for this, as people can't see him here, and at the same time, he can see people. In fact, he can see a few now.  
Mycroft is sitting in the kitchen, with a cup of tea, probably doing homework from the way he's twirling his pen around like he does when he’s reading something. Redbeard, although admittedly not a person, is a person in Sherlock’s mind, and is currently running around the yard in pursuit of a bird. He can't see it right now, but he’s pretty sure Molly Hooper from down the street is staring out the window at him, or at least where he’s sitting now, like she always is.  
Oh, but here’s someone he doesn't see outside every day.

 

John crouches to pet Redbeard, who has just come springing up to him from Sherlock’s yard. Harry claims she has friends outside and agreed to let John come out with her as long as long as he doesn't get in the way of anything. He doesn't plan to this time.  
Instead, he looks around the front yard for Sherlock himself, not having anything better to do. He figures he has to be somewhere out here if Redbeard is, but he doesn’t know where, exactly. Sherlock could be virtually anywhere, from what John has observed before. There’s a rustle of leaves coming from the tree in the front of the yard, and John looks up.  
Once again, Sherlock is sitting on a limb as if he’s always been there and this is a completely normal place to find someone. And, like normal, he’s reading one of his large books from his place on the branch.  
“Er- h- hello there,” says John uncertainly, suddenly somewhat intimidated by Sherlock’s presence.  
He glances up from his book and seems to look John over quickly. “Good morning, John. How are you doing?”  
John is caught a bit off guard by this formality. “Uh- good. I’m doing good.”  
“Well. You’re doing well. ‘Good’ is an adjective and cannot be used in that context.” Lost, John stares at Sherlock before realizing it’s apparently impolite. “Oh, and Mummy told me that’s how you start a conversation. I don’t know, it seems rather uninteresting,” he adds, sensing John’s confusion over practically everything at the moment.  
Furtively John nods, not knowing whether to agree or disagree here.  
“I, for one, don’t really care about how anyone’s doing, ‘cause the answer’s always ‘good, good, we’re doing good,’ and that’s not going to get anyone anywhere; it’s predictable and also improper grammar,” Sherlock says, sliding the four feet or so off of the tree branch and onto the ground.  
“I… suppose so,” says John, still unsure.  
Sherlock holds him under his questioning blue gaze before speaking again. “Anyways, John, what are you doing here? You must have a reason, as you’re not particularly interested in conversing with me. No one is. You do seem very intent on observing my every action, however.”  
“Oh- you- you saw me?” John asks, quickly looking down at his feet and suddenly pretending to be very interested with the grass.  
“You make it fairly obvious, I mean. You practically tumbled out of your window last summer when I fell out of that tree and fractured my right wrist. I heard you gasp from across the yard,” Sherlock states matter-of-factly.  
“Uh, s- sorry,” John answers, cursing his stuttering problems.  
“It’s fine, I suppose. I know quite a lot about you, anyway.”  
Confused, John tries to count the times they have previously interacted. It's not a large amount. “Y- you do?”  
“Quite a lot,” Sherlock repeats.  
“Like- like what?”  
Sherlock sighs, seemingly recounting. “I know you want to be a doctor when you grow up. You want to help people.”  
“That's it?”  
“Certainly not it, but it's fairly obvious. Then there's the fact that you're not especially popular in school, and you do especially want a dog. I've seen the way you look at Redbeard.”  
John glances toward Redbeard, who is frolicking in the yard, again before quickly looking down at his feet.  
“And I know why you're here.”  
Frantically John looks up at Sherlock, not particularly desiring to let him know. “You do?” He asks again.  
Sherlock looks him over again. John isn't sure how friendly this seems. It's not unfriendly, but merely intimidating. “I've seen you at school. You don't have many friends.”  
John shuffles his feet, unsure whether this is offensive or not.  
“You don't really want to be friends with me. No one does. But you've got no one else, so you figured it was worth a shot.”  
Sighing, John nods. “That… was amazing.”  
“Really? Not what people usually say,” Sherlock answered nonchalantly.  
“W- what do people usually say?”  
Sherlock sighs. “Oh, nothing you'd particularly like to hear.”  
“Oh.” John looks around for a topic of conversation.  
“Now, I'll be returning to my tree if you’ve nothing else to say-”  
“Oh- I- I…” John trails off awkwardly.  
“You're welcome to join me.”  
Feeling a sudden gratitude, John looks up at Sherlock, who has already hoisted himself onto the branch. This is probably the nicest offer he’s ever gotten from someone his age. This is an opportunity.  
He smiles up at him. “T- thank you- that’s- that’s… nice of you,” he tries, not knowing how to respond to this.  
Sherlock smiles, an interesting sight to John, and extends his hand. If not somewhat awkwardly John takes it, finding himself somewhat breathlessly next to him.  
“So,” Sherlock says as John is still looking around. “Er, what are you interested in? Probably something around the lines of the medical field… anatomy? Diagnostics?”  
“Er- I’m- um-” John stutters, unwilling to admit at the moment that he doesn't really know what either of those are.  
“Or you haven't really looked into it yet. As for me,” Sherlock adds dramatically, “I want to be a pirate. Either that, or a detective… Mummy said the latter is more probable.”  
John likes detectives. He’s never met someone who wanted to be one before.  
“Do you like pirates?” Asks Sherlock.  
John nods. “Y- yeah, pirates are- pirates are fun.”  
“What about detectives? Do you like mystery? You have to like mystery or you won't even want to be my friend.” Sherlock laughs casually here, but John can tell it's not really casual.  
“Mystery is fun, too,” John answers, not just because he likes it, but because he really does want to have a friend. He wants to be Sherlock’s friend.  
“I have a passion for mystery. I read a lot of it. Still, I don't know how to decide. I suppose a pirate would lead a much more leisurely life,” Sherlock reasons. “Plus, I've already got a first mate. Redbeard,” he finishes, and points to Redbeard, who looks up at the sound of his name.  
“Redbeard is your first mate? But he’s a- he's a dog,” John says.  
“I don't care. He's good enough. Besides, I've never had anyone else who wants to play.” Rather quietly Sherlock finishes, looking down at his book again.  
Suddenly John realizes that maybe, just maybe, he did make the right choice. Maybe he and Sherlock aren't so different after all. Maybe they could get along.  
“I'll- I'll play with you.”  
Again Sherlock smiles his interesting smile before taking John’s hand again and sliding off of the tree branch.


	3. The Holmes Household and Sherlock Holmes Himself Are Intriguing

“You’re allowed to be out by yourself, right?” Sherlock asks, leading him to the door.  
John nods furtively, knowing that even if he wasn’t, he would be too caught up with his excitement to care. The grand house towers above them, old and surely full of good places to explore.  
“Why don’t we go up to my room, then? I have lots of stuff to show you. Mummy won’t mind.” Excitedly Sherlock smiles again, dragging John into the house, Redbeard bounding up behind them.  
The Holmes household is, for lack of a better word, intriguing. More than that, probably, but John can’t think of a better word to describe it. It is immense and ancient and interesting. John had barely visited before, but during the times he had, he was never able to really see it. Sherlock waves to his mother in the kitchen nonchalantly, piping a quick “hello, Mummy, remember John from next door? I’ve brought him along, if you don’t mind.” She doesn’t seem to mind, although there’s no time for any response. Hastily John manages a little wave to her as he’s swiftly brought up the stairs.  
“So this is my room,” says Sherlock proudly, gesturing to it. John is fascinated.  
In it, a large window stands over a somewhat messy bed (actually, the whole room is quite disorganized itself), and, to John’s confusion, a skull sits on the sill. A wooden desk is against the opposite wall, strewn with drawings of ships and pictures of Redbeard and books on anatomy, where a cup of pencils has been overturned and spilled onto the floor. There seems to be no available wall space; anywhere where there would have been is covered by either ceiling-high bookcases overflowing with the books inside them on every subject John can think of, or plastered with large-scale maps of the world and diagrams of the constellations. Brightly-coloured planets hand suspended by strings from the ceiling, where the posters and maps have spread to. An ornate music stand in the corner of the room, on top of which reside Sherlock’s violin bow and sheets of music, on yellowing paper or in tiny, handwritten notes, next to the windowsill, where a beautiful violin rests next to the skull.  
It is wondrous.  
John simply stares at it in captivation.  
“‘S a bit messy, I know. Sorry. If I can just- clear up, a bit, I guess…” Hurriedly Sherlock sweeps some papers and books off of the floor and dumps them onto the desk, where a sheet of paper drifts off again and lands on the floor in front of John’s feet.  
Evidently Sherlock is a good drawer, John notices. Because he can tell exactly what the drawing is of. Or really, who it’s of.  
It’s of him.  
It’s a rather cute picture of John playing with Redbeard on the grass, a rather common occurrence since Redbeard constantly wanders across the front yard and to the Watson household, where John always rushes out to meet him. On it is written “My neighbour. Redbeard’s friend.”  
“Is this… Is this me?” John asks, holding up the paper. Sherlock glances quickly at it before looking away quickly.  
“Oh- y- yeah. I, um, I draw from observations. I draw the things I see,” Sherlock answered sheepishly.  
John continued to stare at the drawing, trying to memorize it. “It’s- it’s really good. It looks just like me.”  
Seemingly contemplating for a moment, Sherlock said “You can keep it if you like.”  
“Really?” John says. He doesn’t admit it, but it’s more than just “really good.” He loves it.  
“Sure. I mean, a lot of people think that’s… creepy, drawing people without them knowing,” said Sherlock. “I don’t really show people my drawings.”  
“You should. I- I really like them.”  
Once again, that sheepish, interesting smile. “Well- thank you.”  
Folding the paper to put it in his pocket, John looks around again. “You have a really interesting room.”  
“You think? I think so too,” agrees Sherlock, and John laughs. “I’ve got a lot of stuff to show people. I mean, I choose not to, usually, but I think I’ll show them to you.”  
“Why me?” Says John, somewhat honoured for this.  
“I don’t know. You seem nice.”  
Smiling to himself, John glances to the floor before curiosity took the best of him. “Is- is that a skull?” He points to the windowsill.  
“Oh, this?” Sherlock climbs on top of his bed and reaches for the skull. “Yeah. He’s my skull. I like him.”  
“Does he have a name?” Asks John curiously.  
“His name is Billy,” answers Sherlock matter-of-factly. “You can hold him, if you want.” He hands Billy the skull to John, who, somewhat repulsed but somewhat interested, stands with it as Sherlock goes through more of his things.  
“This,” Sherlock says, “is my telescope.” Reaching into a drawer of his desk, he pulls out, to John’s surprise again, a telescope. “I use it for… well, looking at the stars and things, I mean, but also for playing pirates.”  
“Is it real?”  
“Yup,” Sherlock pipes. “Try it.” He hands it to John and he looks through it, amazed.  
Excited now, Sherlock now sits in the middle of his bed and goes through more of his possessions. “This-” He holds up a stuffed animal of a bee. “-Is a bee, quite obviously.” He picks up another animal. “This is an otter, and this is a hedgehog.” He pauses and studies John for a moment. “I think you’re like a hedgehog.”  
“A hedgehog?” Starts John, but is cut off as Sherlock dumps the stuffed animals into his arms.  
“Um… hm.” Sherlock inspects the room for more to show his friend.  
John points to the violin, rather clumsily with everything in his arms. “Is that a real violin, too?”  
“Oh! Yes, it is!” Enthusiastically Sherlock reaches for it and flips through the sheet music on the stand. “Any song requests?”  
“Er- did you- did you write those ones?” John inquires about the handwritten papers.  
Shaky treble clefs (which progressively get smoother on other pieces) are drawn onto the lines adorning the page, which contain fairly flawlessly written notes in rather complicated measures (for a six-year-old Sherlock, at least).  
“Correct, once again. Mummy and Daddy say I’m a prodigy.” Sherlock picks them up and leafs through them, selecting one and setting it on the stand.  
“What’s a prodjy?” John asks again.  
“Me, apparently,” responds Sherlock. “Alright, no. It’s one who possesses exceptional abilities, especially children. Like me, I guess.”  
He begins the first few rhythms uncertainly, before transitioning into beautiful legato notes. Once more, John is captivated. Everything about it is perfect- the sweeping melody, the practically mesmerizing bow movements, the way Sherlock hesitantly, but then happily, starts stepping across the room along with the tempo until, John realizes, he is dancing.  
Eventually the music stops and John bursts into applause, dropping the rest of what he’s holding, as Sherlock quickly catches the skull before it hits the ground and bows, laughing. John looks so happy, Sherlock notes. And John notices the same for Sherlock himself- an emotion he doesn’t think he’s ever seen appear on Sherlock’s face.  
“It’s getting dark, I realize. Maybe you can stay the night or something. I have a lot more I can show you. There’s lots to do,” Sherlock suggests, before stopping himself abruptly. “Sorry. I don’t know if that’s allowed on your part of anything, just yet, as we’ve only just became… friends. I get… excited. I don’t- I’ve never really had friends before.”  
However, John nods excitably, knowing he’s thinking the exact same. “That would be- that would be great.”  
Dragging John down the stairs once again, Sherlock pesters his mother madly about the possibility until she finally agrees, and he sends John off to ask on his own part. Something is different about John Watson. He’s not like other “friends.” It feels… real. Like an actual friendship. Maybe he’ll be a best friend.  
The reason for this is because Sherlock doesn’t admit to John just yet that he doesn’t dance while he’s playing for anyone.  
But John is different.


	4. Not A Psychopath

Once again John is brought eagerly up the stairs, where his suitcase is dumped onto the floor. He never was completely convinced that he would be given permission, as his parents tend to be rather strict, but evidently they think that “talking to Sherlock would be good for him.”  
Sherlock runs excitedly around the room, listing possible things to do. He’s wearing his pajamas now and a dark blue robe on top of that. John merely watches him, not knowing exactly what to do or how to calm him down.  
“We could- oh, we could map out the backyard, that's something I've always wanted to do- or we could go through all my books and I could read some to you, I have quite a few favourites… what do you suggest?” Sherlock finally stops and turns to John.  
“Oh- er, I don't know,” answers John uncertainly, looking around the room.  
Sherlock bounds onto the bed and tacks a large piece of paper with a bright yellow smiley face on it to the wall, over the rest of the posters. He takes a dart gun from the desk, climbs upon the chair of his desk, and shoots the dart directly at the paper, landing the dart on the face’s eye. John watches all of this in confusion.  
“I don't know. I do this when I'm bored. If you want to try you can,” says Sherlock, sitting down heavily on the bed again.  
“Um- I don't know,” responds John. “Wouldn't the sound get annoying to the room next to this?”  
“That's Mycroft’s room. If it does bother him, I'll make sure to keep doing it.” Sherlock aims again at the face and hits it in the center with another dart.  
Dramatically he jumps from the chair to the floor and pulls open a drawer to his desk. Looking through it, he pulls out a range of various random items until he finds something he likes. He hold it up to his eye and “inspects” John.  
“It's a magnifying glass, John!” He exclaims happily, and John can't help but laugh about Sherlock’s absurd tendencies.  
“You said you wanted to be a detective, didn't you?” John asks , watching Sherlock bounce across the room, “observing” things.  
“A pirate, then a detective. I like the sound of that, actually. Sherlock Holmes, the pirate. Sherlock Holmes, detective.” He reaches onto a shelf and pulls down a pirate hat, which he smacks onto John’s head. “I wonder what a detective hat is? Do detectives even have hats? They should,” Sherlock says, and finds another hat.  
John watches him momentarily before realizing he’s wearing Sherlock’s pirate hat, and he takes it off sheepishly.  
“Mummy says this is a deerstalker.”  
“What does that mean?” John says.  
“I have no idea. How are you supposed to stalk deer with a hat?” Confusedly Sherlock examines it. “Is it- is it some sort of… death… frisbee?” He throws it like a frisbee across the room and John catches it. “Sorry about that.”  
“It's- it's okay. Why don't we do something other than throw hats across the room?” Suggests John hopefully.  
Sherlock takes both the hats from John and puts the deerstalker on his own head. “Good idea.”  
Tentatively John sits on Sherlock’s bed, observing him pacing around the room. The moonlight from the window casts shafts of light onto the floor, and Sherlock sits down in one of these and pulls a book toward him.  
“This one is about psychology, apparently. Psychology is interesting.”  
John moves to sit beside him. Attempting to decipher what everything means, he decides quickly that he doesn't know most of the words and would prefer that Sherlock explain instead.  
“So apparently there are a lot of classifications,” explains Sherlock pointing to a word. “Sociopath. That's interesting.”  
“What is it- like- like ‘psychopath’ or something?” John asks, not knowing what a sociopath is, but finding he does know sort of what a psychopath is. If it interests Sherlock, he thinks, it may as well be worth bringing up.  
Silent, Sherlock stares at the book for a moment before finding his voice again. “Oh- yeah. Similar, apparently.” He takes off the deerstalker hat quickly.  
“What- what is it? Did I say something? Sorry,” John says frantically, worried that he’s offended his friend.  
“No, no- um, it's not your fault, not at all.”  
John waits for him to continue, unsure of what to say.  
“It's just- I've, er, had a few rough experiences with the word and the rest of the children attending our school. Apart from maybe you. Or whatever his name is. Graham.” Sherlock sighs and turns back to the book.  
“Er, Greg Lestrade?”  
“Yeah, him.”  
“Oh. Well-” John suddenly remembers those times on the playground, where he had observed Sherlock.  
That one time, where John stood on the pavement and watched the young Sherlock sitting on the swings, clutching the stuffed hedgehog he had shown John before, all alone. Sherlock had a habit of bringing various items to school. Sometimes it was the hedgehog, sometimes it was the bee, or anything else random. He had even tried the skull once, but that left the teachers and the rest of the students slightly concerned. John had always wondered why he did this. He thinks he knows now. It's because Sherlock was so alone- like himself.  
The rest of the students in their grade would constantly be on top of him, pestering him, teasing him, calling him out. “He's so weird,” they would all say. “What a freak.” “Why’s he like that?” “He's so creepy. He knows everything about everyone. I think he stalks people.” “He's a freak, like I said.”  
Sherlock would sit on the swing set every day and ignore the comments silently. That is, until one day he got fed up.  
“He's a psychopath, isn't he?”  
“I'm not a psychopath!” That was the only thing he had said. The rest of the children watched him confusedly before returning to their normal activities.  
Sherlock had sat silently on the swings as normal. This time he had his head in his hands.  
John looks at Sherlock now, who has tried to move on from the comment. John doesn't know what to say just yet.  
He’ll come back to it.  
Sherlock sighs and closes the book. “Let's do something else, then.” Glancing around, he takes a deck of cards from his desk and sets it between the two of them. “We can play a card game. I can teach you, if you don't know it.”  
More enthusiastically this time, John nods as Sherlock starts to deal the cards.  
“Now, this game is called ‘Spit.’” He straightens out his cards and begins explaining the process of the game. “...And then when you put down your last card, you call ‘spit’ and take the pile before your opponent can. Got it?”  
Still processing, John slowly nods. “I think so.”  
“Good. Let's begin.”  
Sherlock moves fast, whereas John is logically much slower. Not to John’s surprise, Sherlock wins the first round and claims he’ll try to play slower next round. The next round ends more slowly, but with John attempting to slam his hand down on top of Sherlock’s.  
“You're too good at this,” John says, laughing.  
“I've had lots of practice. I can beat Mycroft now,” Sherlock says proudly. “You'll get it. Eventually.”  
“Eventually” is right, actually, as John is finally able to win the next round just as Mrs. Holmes comes up the stairs to knock on the door.  
“It's getting late, boys. You should be getting to sleep.”  
Smiling, Sherlock looks at John mischievously. “Yes, Mummy.”  
John laughs again as soon as Sherlock’s mother disappears down the stairs again. “What was that look for?”  
“I still have things- well, something to show you. We're not going to sleep just yet,” says Sherlock, standing up. “Of course, if she comes up the stairs again you have to quickly get back to you sleeping bag.”  
“What do you want to show me?”  
Sherlock smiles again and looks up to the window. “Come up here,” he tells John, and climbs onto his bed where John follows him.  
“Have you ever seen the stars, John?”  
Somewhat perplexed, John nods. “Well, yeah.”  
“I mean, really looked at them. Do you know which one is which? Can you find the constellations?” Sherlock asks, pulling him over to face the windowsill and sitting down. John sits with his knees against his chest, curious.  
An answer isn't exactly needed, since John simply stares from the sky to Sherlock again. Satisfied with this, Sherlock takes the telescope (“an eyeglass, really”) and points to an especially bright star.  
“See that one? The really bright one?” He whispers.  
“That big one, yeah.”  
“That's Polaris, the North Star. It's my favourite star.” Sherlock focuses the telescope and hands it to John. “You can see it better this way.”  
Curiously taking the telescope, John peers through it and notes that, indeed, you can see it better this way. “Woah.”  
“It's beautiful, isn't it?”  
“Y- yeah.”  
“And see those? The three in a row, I mean.” Now Sherlock points to three stars in a perfect line next to each other. “That's Orion’s Belt. You can find the rest of him by following those up and down and everything.”  
As always with Sherlock, John is fascinated.  
Sherlock continues to point out the different stars and the constellations and the stories behind them, leaving John in amazement with every one. This, John thinks, is what having a friend is like. He knows it, despite not having many real friends in school. It feels right.  
Eventually Sherlock is contentedly silent for a moment, looking for more things to explain. John finds time to say what he meant to say earlier.  
“Sherlock?”  
“Hm.”  
“I- I know you're not a psychopath. They don't even know what that is, I bet.”  
Sherlock nods this time, still staring at the stars to hide his smile.  
“I don't think you're weird. You're interesting. I think you’re- you're my friend.”  
There's a quiet laugh from Sherlock, who leans his head against John’s shoulder momentarily in an interesting act of affection.  
“I think you're my friend, too.”


End file.
